


ordered dispositions

by celluloid



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Analysis, Character Study, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:21:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28026180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloid/pseuds/celluloid
Summary: “I think,” Harlan says slowly, out of the blue one afternoon, “that I fucked up.”Marta looks up at him from across the study where she’d curled up: shoes off, legs under her, occupying the entire body of the chair and looking like she belongs right in it, like it’s hers. “Fucked up what?” she asks, her voice soft, the swear sounding odd coming from her.(Harlan, on Ransom and Marta.)
Relationships: Marta Cabrera & Harlan Thrombey, Ransom Drysdale & Harlan Thrombey
Comments: 13
Kudos: 94
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	ordered dispositions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Angie13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angie13/gifts).



The first time Harlan meets Hugh, he’s only days old, bright-eyed and full of potential. He gushes when Linda hands him off to him, taking joy in— in knowing they now share a moment he never could have shared with her before, of parenthood, of knowing what it’s like to hold someone fresh and new and _yours_ ; in knowing that Linda is going to have an amazing (and difficult, but amazing) time raising her son; in knowing that he has someone new to dote on and watch him grow into someone wonderful.

Hugh is a blank slate with the entire world opened up to him, and Harlan can’t wait to see which doors he chooses, and help guide him along the way.

He laughs as Hugh spits up on him, brushing aside Richard’s apologies, Linda’s concern; he got a little too excited, bumped the baby up a little too enthusiastically. It’s been a while since he’s held one. He’d forgotten what it was like, and the muscle memory is taking a moment to kick in.

In the meantime, it’s nothing but joy.

It also helps that he’s not going to be doing most of the cleaning up this time around; there’s a novelty in a baby making a mess on you, now. He beams at his first grandchild, who coos in return.

* * *

The first time Harlan meets Marta, he’s tired. He knows he still has a lot left in him - the stories have never left, the inspiration always at his fingertips, dancing along the edges of his consciousness - but eventually, the decades take their toll.

The family does, too, but it’s not exactly something he likes to think about. Life is hard. There are a lot of pressures. He gets it. There are obligations and things are more complicated now than when he was first making his way in the world and he just wants to help, make sure nobody really wants for anything.

But he’s also, you know, _fucking tired_.

And old. Harlan has no problems with vanity, no anxiety over his age. (Not like his mind is going anywhere, and as long as he has that, he’s good.) The body does start to break down, though. So. Marta.

She’s sweet, and quiet, well into her career path. He likes the independent streak. He likes testing her the first time and seeing how she reacts to a cantankerous old man - one she quickly identifies as not cantankerous; as someone worth putting up with because he’s more than a job, he’s a person; as the most pleasant of company and—

He can’t remember the last time he had that.

Which dances along the edges of his consciousness.

He only sees Marta sporadically throughout the week, but it doesn’t take long before Harlan finds himself really, genuinely enjoying life when she’s over.

* * *

* * *

The summer before Hugh is set to start first grade, he picks up a copy of one of Harlan’s books and asks him to read it to him.

Harlan looks at what he’s brought him: _This Little Piggy_. The cover alone is inappropriate. Holding onto the book, he frowns. “I’m not sure you’re old enough for this one.”

Apparently it was the wrong thing to say, because Hugh’s cheeks flush red with indignation. It’s adorable on his chubby, five-year-old face, but Harlan knows better than to laugh at the expression, because he knows Hugh is deadly serious.

“Mom says stuff like that _all the time_ ,” Hugh grumbles, with the air of someone who has had this discussion many, many times and is disappointed that his grandfather would take her side. “I’m almost _six_. I’m old enough for lots of stuff.”

“True,” Harlan concedes. “But do you know what I write about?”

“Yeah, murders and stuff.” Hugh says it so comfortably, like he’s perfectly familiar with the subject matter, is ready to write his own murder mystery. If they get any creative writing assignments in first grade, his teacher is definitely going to get something interesting.

So it’s probably better to not give him any ideas just yet.

“Why do you want to read about murders and stuff?” Harlan asks him.

That one makes Hugh stop and think. Eventually, he says, “Because it’s cool.” And, “Because Mom always talks about how awesome you are, but then she never lets me read your books.”

 _That’s a pretty good point,_ Harlan thinks. Not one he can really argue with. Still, his stuff isn’t appropriate for his five-year-old grandson, no matter how ready he thinks he actually is.

“I’ll tell you what,” Harlan says, setting the book down on a shelf, only just out of Hugh’s reach. Hugh gets that look on his face again, but Harlan is ready to speed past it. “Let’s write our own story together, you and I.”

Hugh frowns, like he’s considering the offer, but isn’t totally sold. “Can it be a murder mystery?”

“Sure,” Harlan agrees, a little surprised at how quickly he does. Well. Some kids are just into that kind of thing, right?

“Okay,” Hugh says. He looks up at _This Little Piggy_ , still completely out of his reach, because he hasn’t forgotten about it, isn’t willing to be distracted so easily. Harlan is going to have to take note of that, because it’s definitely going to come up again. “What if there’s this really mean man…”

They spend a lot of the summer going back and forth, swapping story notes, and Harlan even shows Hugh how to work his old typewriter. He wasn’t expecting his grandchild to take to his work so swiftly - none of his kids had when they were growing up under his roof - but maybe this is just part of being the cool grandfather. He thinks he could get used to this.

* * *

Marta is pretty quiet.

It’s not a stony silence. She’s not being cold. Harlan surmises that’s just who she probably is.

Still, after a lifetime of being surrounded by family and loud kids and everyone having their own agendas, it’s unnatural to him, compels him to fill the air sometimes in a way he probably wouldn’t have been doing even a year ago.

“What do you do for fun, Marta?” he asks her one day when they’re outside on a deck, maybe two weeks into her time with him.

She sharply looks up at that, genuinely surprised by the question. He can see her eyes widen slightly. “Oh. Um. I don’t know.”

“Surely you must,” Harlan says. She’s not avoiding answering; he’s just apparently caught her by complete surprise that she doesn’t actually know how to answer.

At her prolonged silence, though, he starts to feel bad and tries to wave the question off. “Nevermind,” he says, “I was just curious. You don’t actually have to tell me.”

“No, Mr. Thrombey, it’s not that,” Marta blurts out all too quickly and ah, he really feels bad now. He definitely put her on the spot and for no real reason. “I just… wasn’t expecting…” she trails off again, staring down at her hands. Harlan is about to tell her it’s fine, seriously, don’t worry about it, when she starts up again. “I like to read.”

Harlan smiles at that; anyone who will lose themselves in a good book is always appreciated as company. “Any of my stuff?” he asks.

“Of course,” Marta says, smiling at him. It quickly falls from her face as her cheeks suddenly bulge and she brings her hands up to her mouth before running to the deck’s edge and throwing up over its side.

Harlan looks out at her back. “That bad?”

Marta, still with her back to him, holds up a finger in a _wait-a-second_ gesture and shakes her head. She takes another minute to compose herself before turning back around, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Harlan offers her a handkerchief which she quietly accepts.

“I’m sorry,” she eventually says. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“What was that?” Harlan asks her.

She stammers through her explanation, about being unable to lie, and the main thought that crosses Harlan’s mind is how much easier life might have turned out to be if any of his kids had ever had that trait. How much Marta, clearly a good person, does not need that particular handicap when it would have been useful to knock any of his children (or their chosen spouses, for that matter) down a peg or two.

“I don’t know why I said I’ve read your books when I haven’t, Mr. Thrombey. I’m sorry,” Marta apologizes again, but he just shakes his head at her.

“Mysteries aren’t for everyone,” he says. “I would never take offence. And please - call me Harlan.”

Marta exhales. “Okay, Harlan.” She offers him a slight smile of understanding for a second, but it quickly falls from her face. “I think I’m going to get a glass of water now, if you want one too.”

Harlan returns her initial smile. “Go ahead, I’m fine.”

That’s the most he’s gotten out of her so far. He’s pretty sure he likes her.

* * *

* * *

Before Hugh starts junior high, he has an announcement to make.

“I want to go by my middle name,” he says. “So if you could start calling me Ransom from now on.”

He leaves the sentence hanging there, like he’s said all he needs to say (and Harlan supposes, really, he has), and it’s up to him and him alone to provide affirmation and leave it at that.

“Sure,” Harlan says. “May I ask why?” There’s no judgment in his tone; he’s genuinely curious.

Ransom rolls his eyes in response, like the answer should be obvious, but he indulges his grandfather. “Hugh sounds old and stuffy,” he says, like his grandfather isn’t right there, being a senior citizen. “Ransom just sounds better. I like it more.”

Harlan nods because, yeah, that’s just as good a reason as any. “It’s a good name,” he says. “It suits you.”

That throws Ransom a bit, like he wasn’t actually expecting a positive response - which just makes Harlan wonder how well this conversation went with his parents (although considering how Ransom seems to have inherited Linda’s desire to take complete charge of the situation, he has to wonder how a lot of conversations between the two of them go) - and he falls silent, eventually giving a quiet, “Thanks,” in return.

Harlan nods. “You’re changing schools this year, right? It’s a good time to change your name then, too.”

“Yeah,” Ransom says. “That’s what I thought. So I’m doing it now.”

“Did you want to do it earlier?” Harlan asks.

Ransom stares at his shoes. “Yeah,” he says again. “But I didn’t think anyone would listen to me. So I waited.”

Harlan has to frown a little at that; wonder what, exactly, is going on in his grandson’s life that would leave him so uncertain that people wouldn't respect a basic request. Maybe it’s just kids being kids. Maybe it’s something else. He’s probably never going to know, but at least Ransom is getting what he wants now, and that’s what’s ultimately most important.

“It’s a diplomatic approach,” he says. Ransom sharply looks back up at that. “It’s a good move. Shows long-term planning. You can be more likely to get what you want that way.”

“Yeah?” Ransom asks. Harlan recognizes he’s got his full attention now.

“Yeah,” he says. “You mustn’t be afraid to take what you want. And sometimes, lying in wait is the best way to do just that.”

Ransom falls quiet again, but this time it’s a more contemplative silence, rather than the awkward and unsure one he’d exhibited before.

Finally, he says, “Okay.” And then, “I’ll remember that.”

Harlan is proud.

* * *

“How often do you play board games, Marta?” Harlan asks one day.

Marta gives him a quizzical look. “Board games?”

“Yes,” Harlan says. “You know, you take a board out of the box, often there are pieces that go with it…” He trails off, grinning broadly.

Marta just shakes her head, but there’s a small smile starting to blossom across her face, too. “I know what board games are, Harlan.”

“Of course you do,” he says. “That’s why you’re a perfect candidate to play with me.”

“Uh,” Marta says, like she’s still trying to process how exactly they ended up on this conversation, how they are where they are now. That’s Harlan’s fault. He’d broken a very peaceful silence out of absolutely nowhere for absolutely no reason and now she has to play catch up without having all of the pieces.

“I’m old, indulge me,” he says in response to the confused non-objection.

“Sure, I can do that,” she says. Checks the time. “Although maybe not today…”

Harlan looks at his own watch. It’s not terribly late but, well. She isn’t here just to hang out; he is actually paying her to do a job. Keeping her here that much longer just because he’s bored and lonely isn’t fair to her.

“Of course,” Harlan says. “We can put a pin in it.”

Marta gives him a smile - thankful but apologetic - and he’s going to have to do something about that.

So when he sees her the next week, he opens right up with a not at all cryptic, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Uh oh,” Marta says before she’s even had a chance to set her bag down. “About what?”

All she’s doing is confirming his instincts.

Because he had been _tired_. He had been beyond exhausted and now he’s not anymore. Well, he still is a little - he’s old, Walt is still too needy, Joni is needy, Richard is insecure and holy fuck, Ransom took after him too much, was he anything like that when he was younger (but he didn’t have that much money when he was younger, so he certainly hopes not) - but he’s been feeling less like crap since Marta came aboard and he’s pretty sure that’s not entirely due to the drugs and his improved (or at least mitigated) physical health.

“Board games,” Harlan says.

Marta blinks, because oh, apparently that hadn’t been a one-off thought of his towards the end of the week (although really - how often are his thoughts one-off to begin with?). “Well,” she says, “that’s a perfectly reasonable thing to think about.”

He laughs. “Thank you,” he says. “Also, I want to increase your hours, if that’s okay with you.”

She actually does freeze at that, stiffen a little in shock. She’d had her back to him, getting properly prepared for the day; it takes a minute before she actually turns around to face him. “Are you sure?”

That’s a curious response. But he nods. “Sure I’m sure,” he says. “I’m old. You never know what could happen.”

Marta tilts her head, narrows her eyes at him. He remains impassive under her scrutiny. “Board games,” she says, but she’s starting to grin.

Harlan inhales deeply, raising his hands in surrender. “Increased hours would give us more time for things like board games, yes…”

“And how do you know I’ll be any good to play against?”

“Marta,” Harlan says, solemnly, “I do not.”

She laughs.

“See, though, that’s all the confirmation I need.” He’s joking but he’s also completely serious. He can’t remember the last time he heard anyone related to him give a genuine laugh, and Fran isn’t really the type for mellow, hanging out activities. “So, if you’re okay with it…”

Marta locks eyes with him, sincere and it almost hurts how much that’s been missing from his life. “Of course I am, Harlan,” she says. Pauses, like she’s afraid she might be about to overstep her bounds. Decides to push on through anyway. “But this isn’t just about board games, is it?”

She’s not referencing his physical health, either. She’d know.

“Of course it’s not,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate, and she doesn’t push.

“Now, have you ever played Go?”

* * *

* * *

In between Ransom’s first and second years of university, Harlan sets it up that he’ll be his research assistant for a couple of months.

His motives hadn’t been entirely altruistic - “He needs a _job_ , Linda,” he’d told his eldest at first, and with her will they’d managed to wrangle him in - but he was also missing spending time with his grandson. He doesn’t have that same connection, that same spark, with his other grandchildren; hell, not even with his own kids. And Ransom had been off, gallivanting around and doing whatever it was he was up to (without a care in the world for finances), and he’d been missing him.

It seemed like a good way to kill two birds with one stone. Three, even, since maybe it could rekindle their relationship, bring Ransom at least a little bit back to the nest; he’d always shown an interest in Harlan’s work, after all, and maybe the summer months could remind Ransom of that, bring him home more often.

Ransom is petulant more often than not.

Harlan thinks it’ll go away eventually. And for moments, it does: when they stop working and play Go; when Harlan reminds him of all the tricks and turns of the house he’d played in as a kid; when he’s looking into true crime and finds something just twisted enough they can both actually laugh about it, absorb the levity of it before Harlan puts his own words to paper. But for most of the summer, Ransom has made it very clear that he does not want to be there, is only there by force.

Harlan wonders what happened to the kid he wrote a short mystery story with when he wouldn’t let him read his books, not yet. It hadn’t been Ransom’s first choice back then, but he’d come around to the idea quick enough. They’d enjoyed themselves. And now his eldest grandchild is acting like he’s being tortured.

He could ask. He could call him out directly. Harlan could say _what the hell is wrong with you_ or _why do you act like doing a day’s work is beneath you_ or _where, exactly, do you think you’re going in life with this attitude_ but he doesn’t. He holds out hope that maybe Ransom will still come around. Maybe not this summer, but eventually, and if he calls him out now then he might ruin all chances of that.

Harlan can wait. He’s patient.

But maybe he won’t push to bring Ransom back next summer ( _this is fucking miserable more often than not_ ). Linda can push him to get a job in a different field, one of his own choosing. Maybe that’s where Harlan has gone wrong: Ransom is so like him he’d assumed a similar career path would be in store, and he has to remind himself it’s perfectly fine if he doesn’t turn into a novelist as well.

Harlan can step back and be there as a safety net, and eventually, Ransom will come around. He takes after him. He’ll be successful in the end. He’s sure of it.

* * *

Marta is not a writer, Harlan is sure of that much.

She’s a reader and a consumer but not a creator. No, that’s no fair; she creates when they play Go, she’s abstract in ways he never would have considered. She just doesn’t create the way he knows how to.

It strikes Harlan, in the briefest of moments, when he’s writing down a particularly clever murder method that may very well result in his own demise. That’s his first instinct: _Oh, this is a good idea, I’d best not forget it._ Marta is freaking out, which she never does, and he takes notes.

For a second, he pities her: their brains work in very, very different ways, and while he’s immediately leaped to acceptance and devised a plan to get her out of this (he won’t be needing those notes after all, it seems, but at least the idea won’t go to waste) she’s stuck firmly in the crevice between denial and bargaining, where anger would be were it actually a part of her repertoire.

Though she did study a science, and his career was in the arts, and he knows they can intersect - they just aren’t right now.

And it’s a shame, because if they had more time, Harlan can easily see a future in which Marta gets credit in a new novel (much as she doesn’t do mysteries, but he thinks he could have gotten her to come around for this one; maybe it would even be a total departure from his normal flair thanks to her, and it’s truly unfortunate they’ll never get to at least try that together).

He leaves those last notes in his study, well out of arm’s reach, out of mind’s reach. They’re not for him anymore. They’re for her.

* * *

* * *

“I think,” Harlan says slowly, out of the blue one afternoon, “that I fucked up.”

Marta looks up at him from across the study where she’d curled up: shoes off, legs under her, occupying the entire body of the chair and looking like she belongs right in it, like it’s hers. “Fucked up what?” she asks, her voice soft, the swear sounding odd coming from her.

Harlan doesn’t immediately answer, because he’s not sure how to say it. He’s not even sure he understands the full scope of it. Just that, all those years ago - when he’d gotten his first book published, his tenth, gotten married, had kids, bought the house, made a promise to himself that everyone in his family would be looked after, always - somewhere, something had gone astray. There’s no real moment he can pinpoint. It’s an accumulation of decisions over a lifetime that he’d been blind to and he’s not sure there’s a way he can take it back, lift the ink from the already-written-on pages.

So instead, he defaults to, “Oh, lots of stuff.”

Marta gives him a look, vaguely annoyed that he’d interrupted her reading to say absolutely nothing; vaguely curious as to what he’s hiding; definitely determined that by the end of the day, she’s going to get something out of him. Harlan thinks maybe he needed to float that trial balloon in front of her because she might be the only one in his life now who would pop it.

“That’s a very vague thing to say,” she says. “Both things. Both were vague.”

Harlan gives her a small laugh. “Yes, well,” he says. “I knew you’d call me out on it.” _Without being a jerk,_ he doesn’t add, because if he’d said the same stuff to any of his blood relatives he’d either be met with overdramatic concern, selfish panic, or indifference bordering on obnoxiousness.

And it’s not as though he’s hunting for attention or anything like that. He’s just been thinking a lot, and at some point, the thoughts needed to be unleashed somewhere into the world, and his usual method of publishing something wasn’t going to be appropriate here.

Marta always listens, though, and so. She puts her bookmark back in its place, closes the book, sets it down on the table beside her. There’s no chance she goes back to reading now, no point in keeping that option open.

“Well?” she says, leaning forward, taking the challenge. “What’s one of the things you fucked up?”

The only other person he enjoys going toe-to-toe with verbally is his grandson, but that’s just junk food. At least with Marta there’s a good chance it will turn into something productive.

The problem is, for all his stalling, Harlan still isn’t sure what he actually wants to say.

“What do you think about family?” he asks her.

Marta narrows her eyes, ready to dig into the deeper meaning, playing along in the meantime. “You know I love my family,” she says. “I’d do anything for them.”

“Yes,” Harlan says. He knows Marta lives with her mother and sister. Hasn’t met them, doesn’t intend to unless Marta wants it; as friendly as their relationship is, boundaries still exist, and if only he’d realized that years ago for other people in his life. “I remember thinking that way once.”

Marta cocks her head, less interrogative, more analytical now that she’s gotten something out of him. “But not anymore?”

“Not sure,” Harlan says. “You’ve met my family.”

It’s the sort of statement he thinks she’d laugh at. She doesn’t. He’d meant to try to make this flippant again and she isn’t taking the bait.

“They’ve always been good to me,” Marta says, sitting up a little straighter.

“Oh, I’m sure they have,” Harlan says. Based on what he’s seen, he thinks Meg is the one closest to her - which makes sense, just based on general demographics - but still, even Meg will run off to do her own thing constantly. There’s a difference between _good_ and _genuine_. “I don’t doubt that one bit.”

He lets the words hang there, and Marta isn’t sure what to do with them. “Okay,” she says, and lets the air speak her _and…_ for her.

Harlan decides to jump back to something that had been bothering him just before he’d met Marta for the first time.

“You know Ransom,” he says. She frowns almost imperceptibly at that, her instinctive response, maybe not even aware she’s doing it, and it makes Harlan think he’s probably right in what he’s been thinking about this past long while. “I remember holding him for the first time, as a baby, and thinking, wow, I’d do anything for this kid. And I know you’re not supposed to have favourites among family, but, well…”

Marta opens her mouth to say something. Closes it. Opens it again slightly, thinking. Because she doesn’t interact with Ransom much - probably more his choice than hers, but, whatever - but Fran’s rants are more than enough to paint a clearer picture than the occasional family gathering ever is.

“Why?” she asks.

The blunt way with which she does it makes Harlan smile. His smile makes her smile, although she’s not entirely sure why. It just feels like a moment they often have, another one to be added to their small collection of inside jokes.

“I see so much of myself in him,” Harlan says. “I don’t know if that’s because I saw him a lot when he was a kid, because before he got older I was often his confidant, or if he was always just going to grow up that way. But more than anyone else he feels like my flesh and blood and even my mind, and it’s just… curious, I suppose, how it ended up being that way.”

Marta blinks up at him in thought, trying to parse through his words. “For what it’s worth, I don’t see it.”

For as much as Marta had been affirming everything he’d been thinking, that’s the first doubt she’s casted over what he’s been turning around in his head, and he’s not sure if he’s grateful for it or not. He thought he’d been onto something, and maybe it’s better if he has been. Then again, if this is all just in his own head, then that’s probably better for everyone overall.

Really could go either way. Which probably isn’t a good sign.

Still, “Well, that’s kind of you to say.”

Another for the inside joke pile.

* * *

* * *

It’s chilling, for a moment, realizing how easy of a decision it is to kill his own grandfather for money. There’s this little grey area between _I’m so mad I could kill him_ and actually coming up with a way to do it that ensures he’d get away with it, and in that little grey area comes the cold wash of reality descending over him, seeping through his bones, a near out-of-body experience that makes him stop clenching his jaw, makes him stop seeing red as he drives off.

And then, in a split second, the chill is gone and Ransom is committed.

It is laughable how much Fran thinks she would actually matter after she already knows he did _that_.

* * *

Marta knows she has to go home after. She _knows_. But when she makes it back to her car, the image of Harlan, bloody and dead, sets up camp in her mind, and she just needs to rest her head in her arms and sob for a good, long while.

She desperately tries to rationalize everything in her head. Everyone has to die some day, and if they knew a day ago what they know now— then Harlan wouldn’t be dead because Marta never would have mixed up the vials to begin with. No, no. If they knew there was no way to change things, then Harlan would probably actually get a kick out of going out on his own birthday in what he would undoubtedly call an extremely cool way to die.

Because he died from a cut throat, not a drug overdose. Because he died by his own hand, not hers.

He died at hers and it was all so easily avoidable and it’s not just that he’s gone and it’s her fault, that she doesn’t know what she’s going to do for money now, that she doesn’t know what’s going to happen to her family, but she is going to miss him _so fucking much_ and doesn’t want to even begin considering that this is life now, he’s gone and that’s that.

Marta needs to go home. She needs to _go home_. She wanted to call an ambulance and he killed himself for her and the longer she sits here crying the greater the chance she’s going to fuck up his plan, it will all have been for nothing, and _she didn’t even get to at least try_.

At least, at least she gets to try with Fran. Everything is awful and it can never be fixed but at least she gets to try with someone else.

* * *

* * *

The only reason Marta follows the trial is because she thinks Harlan would have. She has her day as a witness, Ransom glaring daggers at her the entire time, and she stares back with a cool gaze when she isn’t being questioned. The only time he ever really had power over her was when Harlan was gone and he seemed like her only lifeline; it’s been months since then and those days no longer matter.

But otherwise, she just wants it all to be over. When she leaves the courtroom, she knows that’s the last time she’s ever going to look at him.

She remembers Harlan once saying he thought Ransom was a lot like him, and all she can think is, _No._

It’s almost a good thing, Marta thinks, that Harlan left her everything, because it’s given her a lot to do in the meantime; a lot to sort out between all of the assets, between having to call people to help with said assets. She doesn’t know the first thing about house upkeep on this scale, let alone in the countryside, or what goes into managing the rights of books or… or any of that.

She hasn’t talked to a Thrombey in months. Doesn’t think she ever will again. She would have wanted their help, but, well… At least the vague threats, the pleading calls have finally come to an end.

So. Finding new people to help her with all of this. It’s a job in and of itself.

Marta wants to go back to nursing, but every time she thinks about actually doing it she feels sick. That alone has her feeling awful; she has the skills to help people (the last two people she tried to help both died) and she can’t even put them to use. Her mom suggests she takes more time off, and because finances are no longer a concern, she does.

It doesn’t stop her from feeling terrible, though. Her sister is actually the one who takes the initiative in trying to find her a therapist, and it’s incredibly, incredibly sweet. Marta genuinely doesn’t know what she’d do without them.

Eventually, she runs out of things to do. She’s found people to take care of all the stuff she knows nothing about. She hasn’t found a therapist yet, but they’re still trying. Just not yet.

So she finds herself staring at the door leading into the attic office, a place she hasn’t been in months.

She takes a deep breath.

Goes in.

And just… finds herself looking through everything that’s still there. There’s a lot she knows nothing about; a lot to reminisce over. An entire lifetime that she was only there for the twilight of, but a lot happened in that time, she thinks. A lot for her, at least. And it’s good to just sit on the floor for hours, flipping through books and notes, laughing and sometimes crying at little objects that remind her of something; reading in fascination at things she never knew.

She finds a small Moleskine and flips through it, her heart stopping at the last words written in it: a method of murder Harlan’s grandson had thought of that hadn’t ended up playing out that way after all.

She has to put it down at that point and take a few deep breaths to avoid being transported back to that night. It had been a stupid idea to come in here. She wasn’t ready. She could have sealed off the room, preserved it as it was, the last time Harlan was alive, and just leave it at that.

Haunting her the entire time. Marta shakes her head. No, that would have been an even worse idea.

She takes one last shuddering breath and chooses to remember something from that night: Harlan’s intrigue at the concept, back when he’d thought there was going to be an easy way to get him out of this, not really any worse for the wear.

For a second, she is… absolutely furious at Ransom all over again, because she doesn’t want to think he and Harlan actually ever did have anything in common but it seems kind of undeniable right now.

And then Marta considers.

She can’t do anything with the little notebook. (She hadn’t even been able to do what Harlan had told her to. He gave his life for her and she is so, so lucky it wasn’t in vain.) But Harlan was in the mystery scene for decades, so if anyone knew anyone who could do something with those final notes, a creative mind’s final musings, it would have been him.

He probably had a contact list somewhere. Or someone at the publishing company will know what to do. She’ll reach out to them tomorrow. Or in a week. Something.

Because as ill as Marta still feels about the whole thing, she knew Harlan’s sense of humour, is pretty sure he’d be disappointed if the whole affair wasn’t turned into _something_.

Yeah. Okay.

She’ll have to finish going through the attic some other time. This was a big day, anyway. She can do it later.

Marta looks down at the Moleskine on the floor beside her. Picks it back up. She doesn’t open it again, just holds it for a few moments before getting back up and taking it with her.


End file.
